Beast
by TopKat
Summary: You'd leave now, if you could, but you can't.  RemusSirius


You'd leave now, if you could, but you can't.

Somewhere between loving him because you did and loving him because you still can, it all turned around. There's a little boy lying covered in blood, in front of you, and all you can see is shapes. It moves; thrown by the force that is so definitely tearing through it. A long line down the belly, a slit to the forehead…a bite mark in the neck. A ruined image of what you'd thought this 'parenting' lark would be.

His mother screams at you, waves her arms, opens and shuts her mouth. The creature does the same; opening and shutting, the red, black fluid bleeding over and over again. His mother raises her wand, screams like a banshee, and takes the shot, straight through the head. The beast is not killed; he never meant, even, to kill the child. He stands, like a man, and swaggers forward. Your wife is screaming, loud, in the darkness of your garden. The fallen apples are sprinkled with blood. The body lies weightless, lifeless, on the floor. Your wife is screaming still. The creature smiles.

"You can't leave, John Lupin. Not now."

And years later, you know the same is true. He's so much older than you ever thought he'd get to be; mother gone, relatives gone, friends a barren and ragtag crew; and this summer, he came home dead. The train was his body-bag, his solemn and scathing gaze his coffin. You smiled and played 'father', but part of you knows he knows what you did. How you dealt with the attack, how you deal with him now. How you wash your hands quickly, obsessively, after healing his post-transformed wounds. How you wait, counting the days, for him to leave you alone.

He bites his lips and growls in the back of his throat, and the full moon that warm july night is almost more than you're equipped for; afterwards, he mutters streams of fluid language; curses, muttered 'sorrys', long, drawn-out sobs. He writhes like you've never seen before.

You'd leave now, if you could, but you can't. Because he is your son.

XxX

You'd leave now, if you could, but you can't.

You wake to cool sheets on a Sunday morning, a warm shape beside you and a fuzz of alcohol and dreams still cobwebbing your head; the door is still open, his breathing is heavy. Years ago, longer than perhaps you'd like to remember, you saw him how he really was. He is a beast; even though now, when he lies sleeping, he is beautiful, you know that behind those lidded eyes beats the heart of a creature too cold to understand. Even when you were with him the night before, you caught the lust of an animal, too cruel to be mistaken for love. When scars on your back gouged streams, and your cries were a mixture of love and disbelief, he poured forth fluid apologies. For the man he was, for the man he isn't, for the hours you spent apart. Then, in the darkness, everything made sense. You and him; it made sense. There was no war, there was no age, there was no consequence.

But you know the man last night, the one who copied off of you in tests, then hypocritically scolded you for doing the same; the one who whispered your name like a prayer; he's not a man at all. That beautiful thing is a demon in a cloak of skin, and no begging and no praying, come full moon, will change that. You roll and look at him, stomach sinking; from what emotion, you do not know.

And now, in the morning, the creature turns over and smiles lazily.

"You can't leave just yet, Messr Black. I'm not done with you."

And years later, you know the same is true. You're both…you're so old. You're so tired, you're so dead inside. He says, without the emotion you expected, that he suspected he died a long time ago; it's just his body failed to understand. Half-heartedly, you agree. You tried kissing the creature, but it didn't feel the same. You tried shouting at him, but he's deafer than he used to be, and less inclined to bite back. So you sit at the kitchen table of a house you always hated, holding his hand and wondering at his grey hairs. In your mind, a tired old beast cavorts. A tired old beast rips you limb from limb. A tired old beast loves you, still.

Because he never really was done with you, and he knows. He knows you stare too often, he knows you always have. He knows that every excuse to get away is a thinly veiled cry for attention. He knows that the creature never really mattered at all. Remus was the trouble, all along, and he knows that, too. He knows that now, and he will know that when he dies, creature and all.

You slide your chair closer to him, the night closing closer in, and act on impulse, squeezing that hand gently in your own. He doesn't seem to feel it, though, and when you look at his face, all you see is shapes. A blunted nose. A different face to the one you see in your mind, when you think about him. This one is tired, weary, dead from the persecution, from the naivete and inexperience of those around him. Now that you're ready to love the boy, he's changed into the old man, and it scares you.

You'd leave now, if you could, but you can't. Because he'll always be this way.

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><p><em>This is an oldie, but i found it and realised i hadn't uploaded it. In case it's not entirely clear, it's from Remus' dad's POV, and then from Sirius'. Thanks for reading, please review! xxx<em>


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